


Coping Mechanism

by marshv



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sexual Fantasy, Triangle Bill Cipher, Weirdmageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:12:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshv/pseuds/marshv
Summary: Coming to terms with Weirdmageddon meant facing things he didn't want to face again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Weird little billdip thing. I like "subtle" billdip but I don't see it as much. Wasn't sure if I should rate this M or E. 
> 
> Here's Dipper being simultaneously attracted to and terrified of Bill.

 

Dipper’s hand is moving at an uncomfortable speed. His fingertips are rough, chafing his skin with a painful friction. The air is cold, dry, and it makes his throat burn while he lies there panting under the covers. If it wasn't for the weather, he would have finished a long time ago.

Not that it makes a difference; It's unpleasant no matter how long it takes.

For as long as this had been going on, it had never been an enjoyable process. Instead it was a warped addiction he had brought upon himself with no power to stop. It was not a sensuous, private time spent focusing on his needs, but a duty he now accepted with resentment and finished with a grimace, chest heavy with self-hatred and guilt.

It wasn't so much the act that disgusted him, that wasn't an issue—shit, he'd been doing that since he was eleven—it was the reason behind it.

Coping wasn't something he was good at. Coping to Dipper meant hiding in books and avoiding people—things that just ended up making his problems worse. So when it came to getting over what happened, he took it upon himself to find a new coping mechanism.

...And he did.

But unfortunately, that new coping mechanism ended up being much worse. Getting off while memories of fire and destruction ran through his head was NOT an improvement over reading books and alone-time. He had memories he wanted to forget that would pop up every time his body decided to pitch a tent. So now, in addition to being traumatized, he was also turned on by that trauma.

And really, what was he supposed to do about that? See a therapist? Yeah right. It’s such a ridiculous thought that he actually snorts. It’s much easier to just pretend it isn't an issue at all.

Which is a _totally_ healthy alternative.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to relax. The cold air scratches his throat and he swallows to lessen the sting. With his thumb, he rubs over the soft head of his cock, pressing into the tip with the pad of his finger, squeezing around the first few inches with his fist. A shiver goes down his neck and along his spine. For a moment he whines, hips bouncing into his hand. Biting down on his lower lip, eyebrows bunching, he maneuvers his grip so he has his whole hand stroking the length of his cock, resulting in a series of long, airy sighs.

When he gets a particularly good rhythm going, his mind starts to wander again.

He knew he had almost died. They had _all_ almost died. Dipper’s life had been significantly altered while it rested in the hands of one repulsive, deranged polygonal demon. He'd been at his mercy. And though it had lasted less than three days, he'd been terrified. The site of pine trees was no longer a serene picture that evoked inner peace and calm, but a cruel reminder of the one creature that managed to get under his skin.

Bill was a genius. A master manipulator. Suave and charming without being too obvious. The terror he radiated was not derived from a rotting, malformed body, nor from his powerful, omnipotent capabilities. It was from his intelligence. There was an energy Bill exuded that held more knowledge than Dipper even knew existed. One that Dipper ached for. Bill had long since mastered the inner workings of the human mind, gone beyond the books and research of known psychology. It extended into Bill like it was innate. For all Dipper knew, it was.

Bill had played them all right into the palm of his hands. It was so easy for him. He'd been _so close_.

A needy moan resonates in Dipper’s chest. Behind his eyelids, away from the moonlight, he imagines all the things Bill was capable of doing to him. He had the persuasive and physical power to force him to do anything—Dipper had no control. He had the universe at his command, demanding that humankind fall to its knees. He was a creator. A god. And the most dangerous creature Dipper had ever known.

With that thought, his hips roll forward. A bead of sweat drips down his hairline and his skin prickles with goosebumps. The contrast in temperature, the combination of hot and cold, torments him, painfully similar to the fear that coexists alongside his sick attraction.

There is a part of Dipper that wants Bill to come to him. He craves the adrenaline. That fight or flight instinct that pounded in his heart whenever he was nearby. He still gets that feeling. Sometimes when he's alone there'll be this silent rush of _something_ , a sensation rather than a sound, that makes him spin around and his eyes dart across his surroundings while his lungs struggle to bring in enough air.

The paranoia that Bill is back—could come back— is one of his most favorite and most dreaded emotions. It'll settle in the pit of his stomach and press down until his pants get tight and his head spins. He hates how special Bill made him feel. Dipper was _smart_. Dipper was a _good kid_. Bill _liked_ him.

Bill _tormented_ him. Bill tried to _kill_ him.

He holds himself with his right hand, pad of his thumb still swirling around his tip. Up and down. Squeezing. He's lubed up from the sweat of his palm now and it makes him eager to finish. The slick sound of his pre come leaking from his slit is so obscene, the carnal instincts in him are bringing up grunts and moans from the sheer thought of what he must look like right now.

What if Bill liked seeing him like this? Sweaty and naked and flushed. Maybe he'd get a smug sense of satisfaction knowing the kid he tried to kill was sexually obsessed with him. Maybe if Dipper does this enough Bill won't come back. They’ll be safe as long as Dipper sacrifices his mental well-being for the rest of his life. He can do that.

But maybe he doesn't want to.

Maybe he wants Bill to come back. Maybe he doesn't care if everything Bill said was a lie. The praise Bill showed him did something to his body. It was euphoria hearing such flattering words coming from someone who didn't need him in the slightest. Dipper was his plaything. A source of entertainment. It was the most erotic feeling in the world knowing, out of every human being, Bill focused on him. And he would do anything to have that feeling back.

And fuck if that wasn't depressing.

In an attempt to recondition himself, Dipper pricks the end of his cock with his nail, anything to stop the guilt, but it just mingles perfectly with the circumstances at hand. He wants pain. He deserves it. After all that's what Bill would do. Inflict pain. It wouldn't be healthy by any stretch of the imagination. It would be Dipper worshipping Bill and pleading with him for praise and attention. He wants to please him. No longer living life day by day, wandering without any sense of direction. He wants to devote himself.

Bill could guide him.

A coil of pressure explodes inside his gut. He whines with his jaw open, crying out. Dipper shudders through it, his hand stroking all along the length of his shaft, gasping as he comes with a violent shake. He's getting it out, white lines of cum splattering on his stomach and cooling. It's so dirty and so good. So much better than anything else. Lips red from being bitten, face flushed, he licks up a line of spit at the corner of his mouth and opens his eyes.

Reality sets back in.

There's a second before he realizes what he did: Another session over, another blow to his psych.

Still gasping, vision unfocused in the afterglow, he realizes he hates himself. With his hand that isn't covered in spunk, he pushes his bangs back, running fingers through his hair. Sweat soaks the sheets and regret replaces the thrill of his orgasm. He rolls to his side, one side of his face squishing into a pillow, and groans with disgust.

As his fingers touch the raised skin of his birthmark, he wonders why he bothers.

**Author's Note:**

> I doubt I'll do anything else with this so if I don't, just imagine Bill comes back, very slowly entering Dipper's dreams until he's stable enough to actually talk to him through his subconscious.


End file.
